


Lessons

by chaucette



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Blood, Bloodplay, Bottom Will Graham, Hannibal (TV) Season/Series 02, Knifeplay, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Bottom Will Graham, Power dynamic fluctuates, Riding, They cut each other, Top Hannibal Lecter, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:13:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29885781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaucette/pseuds/chaucette
Summary: “You killed with your hands beautifully, Will," Hannibal says. “A knife is often thought of as an extension of your hand. It can be just as intimate, if you know how to use it."“You know how to use it. Better than I do."“Exactly. Hand me the knife.”
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 12
Kudos: 91





	Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> hi this is my first hannigram fic! it's set sometime in between will killing randall tier and 'killing' freddie. just a warning, they do cut each other, there's also some mildly graphic descriptions of will's violence fantasies.  
> also, i forgot that hannibal probably has a dishwasher because he's rich so uhh just go with it. he is living out his malewife dreams washing dishes with will lol  
> come visit me on my [tumblr](https://4amxichen.tumblr.com/) where i yell about hannibal and mdzs. enjoy! <3

Hannibal Lecter enjoys routine. Or, more accurately, he does not enjoy people disturbing his routine. Will understood this previously from the dinners he would plan weeks in advance, and the twitch in his brow whenever someone arrived a few minutes late. He understands it now, from the way Hannibal invites him to stay for dinner after every other one of their therapy sessions. Will always helps him prepare the food, listening to Hannibal tell him about the meal - _coq au vin_ today, with _sant ambroeus_ in the oven for desert - and watching closely as Hannibal hands massage seasoning into an unnamed meat. They eat, they wash up, and Will dries the dishes as Hannibal cleans them. Then he goes home, and tries not to think about what exactly is in his stomach. Tries not to think about how easy it is not to think about it.

Hannibal keeps his routine, and so when Will, drying a plate, notices a stray knife lying on the kitchen counter, he can’t help but think it looks profoundly out of place. 

“Is this clean?” he asks, taking it in his hand and holding it out towards Hannibal. Hannibal turns around, and gives him a smile.

“Yes. Leave it out. I wanted to show you something.”

Will raises a brow. “Do I get any hints?”

“No,” he says, eyes flicking to the blade before he turns back around. “You will have to wait until we finish washing up, I’m afraid.”

Will holds onto the knife, feeling its shape and weight in his palm, and then returns it to its place on the counter. He no longer has any desire to stand around and dry Hannibal’s fine china; not with the blade glinting in the corner of his eye, and not when he is sure Hannibal put it there originally just so he would ask about it. He thinks of dropping a plate on the floor and letting it shatter, just to show him that he’s not playing along - or, at least, that he’s not going to wait forever to play.

Hannibal puts away the last plate and faces him once again. Just for a moment, the sliver of something predatory glimmers in his eyes, before it retreats, forcibly pushed down. Will feels a thickness crawl in his throat, fear or excitement or both.

“I’d like you to pick up the knife,” Hannibal says, and Will does so. “You have killed using a gun and using your hands, so far. Have you ever thought of using a knife?”

“Thought of it?” Will smiles. “You know what I did for Jack. I’ve imagined it. Well enough to feel the puncture of skin in my bones as the knife slides in.”

“And how did that feel?” 

Will meets Hannibal’s gaze, unblinking. “You know how it feels.”

“This isn’t about me. I had my becoming long ago. This is about yours.”

Will tries to think of Hannibal before his becoming - only a child, seven or eight, with lonely eyes. Then he closes his eyes and thinks of sliding the knife between the third and fourth rib of the Hannibal standing in front of him. Blood leaks from around the knife and into Will’s hands and he takes it, twisting the blade further towards his heart, bone scraping against the cold metal.

“It feels -” he swallows, pressing his palms into the edge of the counter. “Transformative. As if I’m pushing myself into someone. Changing them from the inside out. Like if I leave I’ll never be warm again and they’ll never be whole.”

“Who are you referring to as _they?”_ Hannibal asks. “Are you imagining me, still?”

“It’s easier,” Will murmurs, pushing the knife further in until he can only see the handle, the side of his hand pressed against Hannibal’s chest. 

“Open your eyes, Will.”

Will pulls out the knife and blood gushes from the wound, hot and heavy and with a current so strong it tears Hannibal further apart. He forces his eyes open and takes a moment to adjust to the light, to the uncut Hannibal standing across from him. 

“You killed with your hands beautifully, Will. That’s what I thought when I saw it. Messy, but beautiful." Hannibal tells him." A knife is often thought of as an extension of your hand. It can be just as intimate, if you know how to use it."

“You know how to use it. Better than I do.”

“Exactly. Hand me the knife.”

Will picks it up, thinks of the space between his third and fourth rib, thinks of the blood. He gives the knife to Hannibal.

“I’m going to show you the places to aim for, when you’re using a knife. Then you will repeat it back to me, to show that you have remembered.” Hannibal tells him, glancing down at the blade in his hand. He brings it to Will’s stomach, and the younger man stiffens automatically. “Do you trust me, Will?”

“No,” he says.

“Your mind is as sharp as ever,” Hannibal smiles. “This is a lesson, Will. It would be far more difficult to teach if you were bleeding out during it.”

He drags the knife up towards his chest, more swiftly than Will expects. The tip just grazes his shirt, lightly enough that Will can hardly feel it, but the way Hannibal moves is so confident, so practiced that it sends Will’s heart thrumming in his ears. 

“The quickest way to the heart is through the stomach,” Hannibal says calmly. “Starting at the ribs and moving inward is also possible, though you may run into trouble at the sternum. A significant amount of force is necessary, though I’m sure you could manage.” 

He follows his words with the knife, moving it from his ribcage back towards his heart, stopping at the intersection of his ribs and sternum and applying pressure. It’s not enough to hurt, just for Will to feel the cold of the blade bleed through his shirt, but it makes his breath quicken nonetheless. Hannibal pauses, watching him intently, and then moves back between his ribs.

“If you want to kill through the lungs, enter anywhere above the fifth rib. Twist, once you puncture it,” he instructs, mimicking it so Will’s dress shirt curls around the tip of the blade. Then he takes Will’s wrist and holds it out in front of him, and Will watches intently as the knife glides through the air and lands on his lower arm. Hannibal moves it gracefully - like a performance, like the birth of art - and it makes Will feel like he’s not quite in his body. Like Hannibal could cut into him, and he wouldn’t feel a thing.

“The radial artery requires a deep cut - at an angle, to ensure muscle contraction does not reduce the bleeding. They are unlikely to die from this alone, but it can certainly help the process along.” He presses down lightly, then moves up towards his inner elbow. “The brachial artery requires much the same, and yields far more impressive results. They will bleed out in a few minutes, if you cut deep enough.”

He presses down harder than before, as if to demonstrate his point, and Will feels his heart jump. Hannibal then swiftly brings the knife to his neck and Will inhales sharply, jerking against the bite of the metal against his bare skin, reaching out automatically and clutching Hannibal’s waist. Hannibal waits a moment, watching him curiously, and then brushes a light hand over his shoulder.

“Are you prepared to listen further?”

“It’s cold,” he grits out, closing his eyes.

“I’m sure you can manage. You have certainly survived worse,” Hannibal says. “The knife is sitting at the pulmonary vein. It requires a considerably deep cut to kill someone.” He shifts the blade inward, the edge gliding across his skin, and Will is sure he can feel his pulse thrumming against the metal, the sound of his blood so hot in his ears that he can only half hear what Hannibal is saying. “The carotid artery is more effective. Your victim will bleed out in minutes. Perhaps under a minute, if you hit the right spot.”

Hannibal reaches up to grasp his chin and Will opens his eyes. He is met with Hannibal’s gaze, filled with that same predatoryglint, no longer subdued. He moves the blade along his jaw and Will lets out a shaky breath, almost a sigh, the slide of the metal calming and terrifying all at once.

“Turn your head, Will. I don’t want to hurt you accidentally,” Hannibal murmurs, guiding him with his hand.

“No, you’d prefer it to be on purpose,” Will bites out, turning his head all the same. 

“Would I?” Hannibal asks, his voice amused.

“Yes.”

“Would you?” 

Hannibal moves the knife to press against the base of his ear, more firmly than before. It feels less like a lesson and more like an experiment, a test of Will’s reactions. The edge of the blade stings and Hannibal’s fingers still lightly grasp his chin, and Will can’t quite decipher whether Hannibal is asking if Will would like to be hurt, or if he would like to hurt Hannibal. 

“No,” he says regardless. Hannibal shifts his eyes to the knife. 

“Cutting an ear off is unlikely to kill your victim. The shock it gives them, however, often proves useful,” Hannibal says, and Will thinks of Abigail, thinks of the parts of her in the kitchen sink. Some conjured image, her mouth and ears pouring with thick blood, flashes in his mind and he stiffens involuntarily. At this, Hannibal presses the knife deeper until the base of his ear aches, the pain of it keeping the image at bay. Hannibal moves his other hand to brush a knuckle along Will’s cheek, as if it can be translated into an apology, and Will wants to crush it in his palm, wants to grab the knife and plunge it into his stomach, wants Hannibal to press the blade to his throat again until he can’t think of anything else.

They stay like that for a moment, and then Hannibal pulls away, handing the knife to Will.

“Show me what you’ve learned.”

Will takes a breath, pulling his hand from Hannibal’s waist, and presses the knife to his stomach. He doesn’t stiffen.

“Do you trust me, Dr Lecter?” Will murmurs.

“This is not about trust, Will. It isn’t about us at all. It is about you.”

“I see,” Will says. He drags the knife up to Hannibal’s heart and heat immediately rushes to his head, the images from his dreams suddenly so close he can almost taste them - as close as a few inches into Hannibal’s flesh. “The quickest way to the heart is through the stomach. You can go from the ribs as well, though a significant amount of force is necessary to get through the sternum.” He presses down at his chest in the same place that Hannibal did, with more pressure than Hannibal did to him. “Though I’m sure I could manage.”

“Very good. Continue.”

“Anywhere above the fifth rib, you can puncture a lung. Twist once you’re in,” he says, playing out his words. He wants to cut a tear in Hannibal shirt, press the knife to the vulnerable flesh underneath, but he makes himself move on to his arm. He recites what Hannibal told him - radial artery, brachial artery -, forcing the words smoothly through his teeth as his heart thrums in his head. It’s almost humiliating, saying the words - the anatomy of violence, the proper terms for the hot blood of Randal Tier surging in his hands. Humiliating, at least, to push past the shame and disgust of it, and to do it so easily; to glide the knife up Hannibal’s arm and feel heat and pride pool in his stomach when he grazes the ridge of the scar from Matthew Brown. 

He moves the blade to his throat, and presses down until Hannibal’s jaw tightens. 

“The knife is sitting at the pulmonary vein. It requires a considerably deep cut to kill someone,” he says, keeping it there for a long moment before moving inward. “The carotid artery is more effective. My victim will bleed out in minutes. Perhaps under a minute, if I hit the right spot.” His eyes flicker up towards Hannibal. “Am I hitting the right spot?”

“A centimetre upwards.”

Will moves it as Hannibal says and presses further in, heady with the sight of Hannibal’s skin curving under the blade. Hannibal smiles, breath hitching in his throat, and it’s enough to make Will feel alight.

“Do you feel like God, Will?” 

Will’s eyes trail the flat of the knife. “I feel like myself.”

“Even better, then,” Hannibal says. “God is only a metaphor. You are far more bright and dangerous than that. You are intoxicated by your own power, and you are right to be. It is captivating.”

Will swallows, and shifts the knife to Hannibal’s ear. There is a pinkish line on Hannibal’s neck where the metal pressed in and he struggles to tear his eyes from it.

“Are you captivated?” 

“It is like watching a masterpiece come to life. I moulded you with my hands, and now you are using your own hands to cut me.”

“Not - ” Will grits his teeth, forcing his voice into steadiness. “You’re not moulding me. And I’m not cutting you.”

Hannibal leans into the knife, enough so that if Will pressed any further, he is sure he would break skin. The image of Abigail returns, and Hannibal eyes him as if he can see it himself.

“Repeat what I taught you, Will,” he says calmly, and Will feels anger curl in him.

“Cutting an ear off is unlikely to kill my victim,” He snarls. “The shock it gives them, however, often proves _useful-_ ” 

His hand tightens around the knife and he can almost taste it, the bite of the knife, Hannibal’s blood in his teeth. Hannibal remains perfectly still, as if waiting patiently for Will to soften. Will refuses to, and refuses to, and then feels his grip loosen almost imperceptibly.

“Very good,” Hannibal says, pulling deftly away from the knife. Will lowers his hand, feeling strangely useless without something to press the blade against. “How much of what I taught you did you know already?”

Will pauses. “The basics. Always good to hear it from a professional.”

Hannibal smiles, breathing out a laugh. “I was a surgeon for many years,” he says. Then he holds out his hand, glancing down at the knife. “Let us continue.”

Will holds back any surprise at there being more _,_ and hands him the knife. He cannot quite hold back his surprise when Hannibal swiftly drops to his knees. 

“What are you-” Will starts, looking down at Hannibal, and is met with a bulge in his own pants. Anything he would have said promptly leaves him _._ He doesn’t know when it happened, or why it happened, except that he knows exactly why it happened and it makes him tear his eyes from it, unable to look, heat flooding his head and chest.

“I am continuing our lesson,” Hannibal says simply, as if he hasn’t noticed it. “Your body does not end at your waist.”

 _Clearly,_ Will thinks. Hannibal presses the knife to the back of his left knee, and he thinks he might buckle under it.

“The popliteal artery can cause your victim to bleed out, if you cut deep enough,” Hannibal says. “It is, I’m sure you know, a continuation of the larger femoral artery, which runs along the upper leg.”

He drags the knife upwards, gliding it along his inner thigh, and pauses when he is halfway up. He places a warm hand on Will’s thigh to spread his legs further apart and Will sucks in a harsh breath, pressing his hands hard into the counter behind him. Hannibal continues moving upwards until he is a few inches away from his crotch and then pushes the knife further in, not hard enough to draw blood but more than hard enough to hurt. A small, strangled noise catches in Will’s throat and he squeezes his eyes shut, his body tensing. 

“The femoral artery is one of the most effective places to aim for. Your victim can bleed out in minutes,” he says, keeping the knife there for a long moment before bringing it down to his ankle. “The popliteal artery also leads to the posterior tibial artery and, lower down, the dorsalis pedis artery.” 

He removes Will’s shoes and presses the blade to the top of his foot. “Like the radial, neither are likely to induce death, though they can bleed profusely.”

“I don’t think I’m going to need to stab someone in their foot,” Will snaps. He feels like every string of his body has been pulled too tight, and at the same time, that he is wading, swimming, unable to keep hold of anything that isn’t the sting of metal against his skin.

“You can never know what may prove useful,” Hannibal tells him. “Heavy bleeding is very often useful. Particularly if you mean to elevate the body into something greater than a kill. This is why I have shown you all the areas that will bleed profusely when cut.” He pauses. “All except one, of course. I’m sure you are aware of the one I have missed.”

Will’s blood thrums in his ears. “Show me.”

“Very well,” Hannibal says, and Will can hear the pleased smile on his lips; almost hates him for it. He brings the knife to the base of Will’s cock and presses down through his pants, just hard enough for it to sting. Will gasps, hands flying to Hannibal’s hair, rutting slightly against the knife.

“Stay still, please,” Hannibal instructs. “I am being careful. That doesn’t work unless you choose to be careful as well.”

“Don’t be,” Will says, voice strained. 

“When did this become sexual for you, Will?”

Will feels blood rush to his face and he grits his teeth, unable to turn from the question. He wants Hannibal to ask again, more expectantly, or press the knife harder against his cock, so he could force the answer out of him. Instead, he remains still, patient, waiting for Will to break the silence.

“My throat,” Will says finally. “When you put the knife…” 

“Is it the fear that arouses you, or the pain? Or the thought that I could, at any moment, create art from your very essence, elevate you to something higher than yourself?”

“All,” he chokes out. “All of it.”

“Excellent,” Hannibal remarks, clearly pleased. “Will, look at me.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“I believe you can.”

Will forces his eyes open and heat pools in his stomach. Hannibal kneels before him, his hair mussed from Will’s hands, the knife slotted tightly between Will’s inner thigh and his bulge, now more prominent than before.

Will stares at him with a certain, desperate hunger and Hannibal smiles, his eyes glittering. He drags the flat of the blade along his length and presses the edge to where the tip of Will’s cock sits under his pants. It doesn’t sting like before, more faint pressure than anything, but the sight of it makes him groan, fingers tightening in Hannibal’s hair. Hannibal stares at him for a moment, and then stands up before Will can object.

“I hope you were listening,” he says, placing the knife in Will’s hand. The younger man looks at him incredulously, his breathing still erratic. When he realises Hannibal won’t ask again, he scowls and drops to his knees, pressing the knife to the back of Hannibal’s knee. 

“The popliteal artery can cause my victim to bleed out, if I cut deep enough,” he mumbles, Hannibal’s words echoing in his mind. He moves the knife upwards with a surprisingly steady hand, his face and chest still hot from moments before, and pushes Hannibal’s legs further apart. He rests a palm on Hannibal’s upper leg and brings the knife further up his thigh, quickly, almost violently, until the back of his hand brushes Hannibal’s member. It stiffens slightly against him, and jerks up when he presses the knife into his leg. 

“It’s connected…” Will starts, and then trails off. He can’t recall the term, the ground too hard against his knees, Hannibal’s body too hot in his hands and too receptive to his violence. Or, maybe, it’s just that his bulge is three inches away from his face. 

“These are the basics, Will,” Hannibal says. Matter-of-fact, but tinged with a faux disappointment that makes Will’s stomach curl. He runs delicate fingers along the back of Will’s neck, and the younger man leans into the touch. “I know you know it.”

“It would be easier just to suck you off at this point,” Will snaps, eyes flitting up towards Hannibal angrily. The older man’s cheeks gain a faint pinkness, almost unnoticeable, and Will decides he wants more of it. “I know everything you told me already. I teach forensics, for God’s sake. Any other time, I can recall it like lightning. You know I can. Just let me-”

He breaks off, pressing the back of his hand harder against Hannibal’s bulge. Hannibal’s breath comes slightly sharper.

“I’m sure you can. But I want you to recall it now,” he tells him. “If I am not teaching you how to use a knife, perhaps I can teach you patience.”

Will’s cock strains against his pants. He grinds his teeth, closes his eyes, tries to breathe. “The femoral artery. One of the most effective places. My victim can bleed out in minutes.”

“Good. Continue.”

He slides the knife down to his ankle. “The posterior tibial artery,” he breathes. He unties Hannibal’s brogues and slides them off him, pressing the knife to his foot. “The dorsalis pedis artery. Both will bleed profusely when cut. As will the groin.”

He moves the knife up to the base of Hannibal’s cock and glares up at him as he applies pressure. Hannibal’s eyes squeeze shut for a moment, his tongue flitting between his lips.

“Have I recalled your lesson adequately?” Will asks, a bite in his voice. He presses in harder, cruelly, and Hannibal’s hand tightens to grasp the back of his neck. 

“Will,” he lets out; unsteady, an attempt at a warning. 

“I could cut it off,” Will tells him, cocking his head.

“You could. I doubt you’d want to.” 

“What makes you think that?”

“You seemed to have other plans, a moment ago. You will find those plans are much more easily executed when it is still attached.”

“Maybe I have other plans, now. New plans,” Will says, testing out the words. He pushes the knife down harder, almost tearing into the fabric of his suit, and Hannibal’s digs his nails hard into the back of his neck. Will’s lips part at the sting of it and a smile ghosts Hannibal’s mouth. He digs his fingers into Will’s curls and pulls until his head is tipped sharply upwards.

“Thought you wanted to be careful,” Will chokes out. His hand jerked when Hannibal pulled him backwards, the knife now resting nearer to his thigh, but it could have just as easily gone in the other direction.

“You said not to be,” Hannibal says. He pulls harder, watching intently as Will gasps, his body jolting slightly and legs pressing together, rubbing against his clothed cock. Hannibal wonders whether or not the movement is subconscious. “This suits you very nicely, Will. Stand up, please.”

Will looks at him searchingly, as if trying to decide whether to do what he says. Hannibal spreads his hand to grasp the back of his head, thumb pressing into the side of his neck. 

“Will,” he repeats, guiding his head forward and up with his hand. Will gives in and obeys, steadying himself against the counter once he’s standing. Hannibal pushes his hands behind him and onto the countertop, taking the knife from him and holding his wrists down with his other hand. 

“Your throat, wasn’t it?” He asks, and presses the blade lightly to the jugular. Will clenches up, fists curling against Hannibal’s hand. “Relax.”

“Tell me what you’re going to do, and I’ll relax.”

“A simple test of your reactions,” Hannibal tells him, and lets go of his wrists. “Keep your hands there, please.” 

He cups the tent in Will’s pants and presses the knife gently into his throat. Will’s cock jerks in response. Hannibal does it harder, enough to cause discomfort, and it jerks again, Will’s hips rising sharply with it. 

“And the carotid,” Hannibal breathes, sliding the knife inwards and pressing in again, close to breaking skin. He squeezes his cock as he does it and Will ruts into it, a small, choked sound leaving his throat. Hannibal smiles, satisfied, and pulls his hand away. 

“Don’t,” Will says. He grabs Hannibal’s hand and puts it firmly back on his crotch, and Hannibal immediately moves it away again, cupping Will’s hand and pressing it into the edge of the counter.

“Don’t what?” Hannibal cocks his head, leaning into him, his eyes dark. He holds Will’s gaze for a moment, and then kisses him - kisses him far too gently, the knife still held tight against his throat. Will’s hand grows slack against Hannibal’s palm. He leans further in and strains against the sharp metal, his mouth soft and hungry and desperate, and Hannibal swiftly pulls away.

“Would you like this to be elevated to something more overtly sexual?”

“What do you think?” Will says sarcastically.

“I think you do. But I want to hear you say it.”

Will grinds his teeth and swallows hard. Hannibal counts four seconds of silence - less than expected.

“Yes,” He says. Hannibal raises an eyebrow. “Sexual. I want you to make this sexual.”

“Beautiful,” Hannibal says, running a thumb along his cheek. Will looks halfway between rolling his eyes and leaning into the touch. Hannibal then reaches down and presses his hand to Will’s crotch, palming him through his pants. Will immediately moves his hips up to meet his hand, forcing more friction, but Hannibal’s touch remains slow and light. He only stares at him, tracking Will’s reactions as if he is something rare or inscrutable; as if he needs to imprint the moment into his memory.

Will feels neither rare nor inscrutable. He reaches up and pries the knife from Hannibal’s grasp, and presses it tightly into Hannibal’s shoulder. He pushes Hannibal forward with it and grips his tie with his other hand, tugging harshly.

“Touch me,” he says, their faces inches apart. “Everything you’ve done, and you can’t fucking touch me?”

Hannibal blinks, and his eyes grow darker. He crashes his lips into Will’s, kissing him as if he’s trying to devour him, and frantically undoes his pants. He pulls them down with his boxers, just enough for his cock to spring free, and rubs his thumb in circles over the head. It’s slick with precum, Will can feel it, and it makes heat rush to his face. Hannibal digs into his slit, enough to make Will clench up, and then pulls away from the kiss. He brings his thumb to his mouth and makes a show of sucking Will’s precum off of it, then begins to drop to his knees.

“No,” Will says immediately, pulling him back upwards with his tie. “You’re not putting your teeth anywhere near my dick.”

Hannibal looks up, eyes glittering with amusement, allowing Will to pull him where he wants.

“So little trust in me, Will.”

“I already said I don’t,” Will says, readjusting the knife at his shoulder. “I don’t trust your - self control.”

“I have very good self control.”

“Not with me.”

Will tugs him closer and Hannibal’s eyes trail his face, slow and hungry.

“There is so much I want to do to you, Will,” He murmurs. He spreads precum over the upper half of Will’s cock and strokes it hard and quick. Will’s lips part, and Hannibal wraps a hand around his throat, fingers pressing down on either side. “You want me to cut you.”

Will’s breath hitches. “Yes.”

“You also want to cut me.” Hannibal presses harder, cutting off his airflow.

“Yes,” Will repeats, voice strained, hips rocking against Hannibal's hand. 

“Excellent.”

Hannibal moves his hands to unbutton Will’s dress shirt and Will follows suit, putting the knife on the table and stripping Hannibal of his layers. Hannibal’s bare skin is hot and tender and he digs his nails into it until it is marked with little red crescents, trailing his chest and his ribs. He wants to dig in further, tearing flesh, pressing his fingers into the warm slick of his blood and the hard of bone. Hannibal lets him stare. He undresses his own lower half himself and pulls Will towards the chair by the counter, making him remove his pants the rest of the way.

“Come here,” Hannibal says, sitting down, and Will clambers on top of him, legs slotting around Hannibal’s thighs. His cock presses against Hannibal’s and he rolls his hips against it, hands falling to the other man’s waist. Hannibal picks up the knife and presses his palm to the small of Will’s back.

“Stay still, please,” he tells him. Will steadies himself, and Hannibal places the tip of the knife at the base of his throat. He trails it slowly downwards and Will bites back a small gasp, the metal far sharper and more precise against his bare skin. Hannibal stops at his heart and Will watches as he presses down, enough that Will is sure he will break skin, though he doesn’t. 

“Are you afraid, Will?” Hannibal asks. It is only at this that Will realises how tightly he is clutching Hannibal’s waist; how he hasn’t breathed since Hannibal put the knife on him. He imagines Hannibal pushing it into him, puncturing through his heart, his blood dark and glistening in Hannibal’s ready hands

“No,” he lets out. Hannibal raises an eyebrow.

“Good,” he says. He drags the knife lower, down his stomach and the trail of hair below his navel, and then presses it into the base of his cock. Will chokes, his whole body tensing, and he forces himself not to move. Hannibal stays there for a long moment and then drags the blade over his balls and downwards, keeping it perpendicular to his length with the sharp edge grazing his skin. Will’s breath comes quick and shallow, almost in pants, unable to pull his eyes from the knife. When Hannibal reaches the tip, he rests the sharp edge directly next to his slit, and Will’s cock jerks against it.

“Fuck,” he lets out. “Fuck. Please.”

“Language,” Hannibal murmurs. “What are you asking for?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t...” He breaks off, squeezing his eyes shut and opening them again. “More. Fuck, I want more.”

Hannibal presses down, just enough for it to sting, and a small, broken sound falls from Will’s mouth. He lifts the knife away, placing it back on the counter, and takes a different one from the knife block, slightly thinner.

“You sterilised them all,” Will realises. “For this.”

“I always keep my knives clean,” Hannibal says. “Where would you like me to cut you?”

Will pauses, staring at the knife. “My stomach.”

“As if I’m gutting you,” Hannibal smiles. Will doesn’t reply. Hannibal places the knife at his stomach and digs the tip in until he breaks skin, then drags it towards his navel. Drops of blood bead at the line of the cut, dripping slowly onto his thigh, and Will’s heart pounds so hard in his head that he barely hears the sound that leaves him. Hannibal swipes his thumb over the blood and raises it to his mouth, licking it off as if it is a delicacy.

It’s the first time Will has seen Hannibal commit an act of violence, and it is on Will himself. Fitting, he thinks. Good, even - that he has claimed that for himself. He twists his hand into Hannibal’s hair and kisses him hard, tasting his blood on the other man’s tongue. 

“My arms,” he rasps into his mouth, putting them out flat at his sides. Hannibal nods, pulls away from the kiss, and cuts a thin line into his upper arm, quick and careful. It stings, burns, and Will reaches out to clutch Hannibal’s other hand, fingers pressing hard into his palm. 

“Would you like to use a safeword, Will?” 

“No,” Will pants, burying his face in Hannibal’s shoulder.

“I believe you should,” Hannibal says, moving the knife to his other arm. “Pick one, please.”

Will bares his teeth, annoyed, and sinks them into Hannibal’s shoulder. Hannibal shudders under him.

“Lounds,” he growls, licking at his bite marks. 

“Lounds?”

“It’ll get me out of the mood.”

Hannibal breathes out a laugh. “Lounds, then.”

He presses the knife into his arm, making a cut to match the other one, and Will groans into the crook of his neck. Blood trickles slowly into his hands. He presses one to the side of Hannibal’s neck, smearing red across the skin, and latches his lips to it, savouring the mingled taste of Hannibal’s violence and sweat. He keeps his other hand tightly wrapped around Hannibal’s, his blood sticky and warm between their palms. 

Will litters Hannibal’s neck with bruises, choking back a ragged sound as Hannibal drags a cut just beneath his collarbone. It’s slightly deeper than the others, blood running down his chest, and Hannibal dips his head to suck at his nipple and the drops of red surrounding it. He puts the knife on the table and drags a hand along Will’s waist and ass, pressing two fingers against his entrance. 

“Please,” Will lets out.

“Are we going to do this again, Will?” Hannibal says, and it takes Will a moment to realise he’s being sincere. “I have barely put my mouth on you. I would like-”

“Your fingers, just- God, it hurts. My arms hurt. I need your fingers, need you inside. Now.”

Hannibal’s lips part slightly in surprise. “Another time, then,” he says, and then pauses. “It would be wise to clean and bandage your cuts.”

“No,” Will bites out immediately. They sting, more than they did before, the last one still leaking blood, but he wants to feel it, wants them to burn and ache as Hannibal pushes into him. 

“Very well,” Hannibal says. He reaches over to a drawer in the counter and pulls a small, ornate bottle from it. Will lets out a disbelieving laugh.

“How long did it take you to plan this? You have everything where you want it to be. Everything. Including me.”

Hannibal pauses. “I had hoped,” he murmurs, coating his fingers with the lube. He presses one digit into Will before he can respond. He thrusts in deeply and grazes his nipple with his teeth, tugging at it slightly and feeling Will’s muscles tighten against him. After a few moments, he adds another finger, spreading them inside Will, stretching him open. He bites down hard onto his nipple and Will cries out, pushing down on his fingers, hands scrambling for his hair. Hannibal lifts his head, and reaches for a clean knife. 

“Freshly sharpened,” Hannibal says, offering it to him. Will takes it and presses it to his arm, and Hannibal quickens his pace inside of him. “Try to keep it still.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Will asks. His voice is unsteady but his eyes are dark, humoured, edging at something wild. 

“You want to, so that when you do cut me, it will be because you intended to. Not because of a chance slip of the hand.”

“I know what I intend, Doctor Lecter,” Will says, pressing down slightly with the knife. Hannibal quickens his pace and Will’s fist tightens around the handle, but still doesn’t let it break skin. Hannibal smiles. He curls his fingers inside of him and breathless sound catches in his throat; again, and Will grinds hard against his fingers. Hannibal thrusts them in relentlessly, pressing against his prostate, and Will shudders against him, eyes still fixed on keeping the knife from cutting Hannibal. 

Hannibal adds a third finger, spreading them inside Will, and the blade presses harder against his skin.

“You’re on the brachial, Will,” Hannibal says, breath slightly quick.

“Trust me,” Will says, locking eyes with Hannibal, mouth curved into a smile like he’s said a joke. There’s something slightly animal emanating from him, something frantic and intense, as if he’s drunk on the way Hannibal’s flesh curves under the knife. “You can do that, can’t you?"

“I can,” Hannibal says, staring straight back. Smiling, but not as much as Will. “I do.”

Will’s jaw tightens. He keeps the knife tight against his arm, grinding slightly against Hannibal’s fingers. Then he moves it to his ribs and cuts in, quick and smooth, right between the third and the fourth. Hannibal closes his eyes and lets out something between a groan and a sigh, fingers jerking inside Will. Blood trickles from the cut and Will cups it with his palm until his hand fills with red, warm and wet and alive. His breath quickens at the feeling and he brings his palm up to cup Hannibal’s cheek. He wants Hannibal to feel it; his violence, the heat of what Hannibal gave to him, and of what he pulled from him. Hannibal turns his head to press his lips to Will’s palm and curls his fingers deeper inside of him, and Will feels so close to him it’s unbearable, the pulse of his blood and breath thrumming in Will, his very lifeline burning under Will’s skin.

He drags another cut along Hannibal’s chest and presses his lips to it, running his tongue along the edge and tasting his blood. It glides down his throat more easily than he wants it to and Hannibal tangles a hand in his hair, looking down at him with nothing short of adulation. Will kisses him, hard and messy, pressing his tongue into Hannibal’s mouth and letting him taste himself. Hannibal rubs two fingers directly against his prostate and Will moans into his mouth. 

“There is so much of me inside of you,” Hannibal murmurs, rubbing harder. Will shudders around him, swears he can feel his blood hot in his stomach. “Does it feel overwhelming?”

“In a good way,” Will says, breath erratic. “I could be more overwhelmed.”

“Could be?”

“Want to be.”

“In what way do you want to be overwhelmed?” Hannibal asks. His fingers remain relentless and Will chokes slightly, or maybe chokes to hold back a whimper. 

“Your cock. I want you to fuck me.”

“Do you?” Hannibal cocks his head, pressing harder inside of him, practically begging Will to say more.

“I want you inside of me. I don’t want to think about anything but you. Don’t want to feel anything but you. I want to - take all of you for myself,” Will bites out, running a thumb along the cut on Hannibal’s chest, possessive.

Hannibal smiles. “Take it, then.”

He pulls his fingers out and Will jolts slightly at the emptiness. Will reaches for the lube, spreading it liberally along Hannibal’s cock, and then lowers himself onto it. He goes slowly, gripping the knife with one hand and Hannibal’s shoulder with the other, and Hannibal watches him intently, hungrily. 

“Fuck,” he lets out once Hannibal is fully inside of him. He feels slightly dizzy at the stretch, so full that he can’t quite breathe. He doesn’t give himself time to adjust, raising his hips up and then sinking them back down again, moving the knife to Hannibal’s jaw with an unsteady hand. Hannibal turns his head and raises his chin so that Will can see the bone more clearly, and Will presses down, watching Hannibal’s skin grow taut under the blade. 

He rides him slowly, painfully slowly, and Hannibal grasps his waist, almost desperate. Will takes his wrists in one hand and pushes them hard against the back of the chair. Hannibal doesn’t struggle, doesn’t try to break free from his hold; only lets out a low moan when Will purposely tightens around his cock. Will presses the blade harder against his jaw and forces his head to tip further back, the Adam’s apple bobbing steadily in his throat. He drags a long cut along the bone and Hannibal’s cock twitches inside of him, hands straining slightly against Will’s hold. 

“Will,” he lets out, almost a plea. Blood trickles quickly down his neck.

“What?” Will says. He moves the knife to the base of his ear and pushes in, cutting as close to to the ear as he can get. It’s deeper than Hannibal ever did to him - maybe too deep, even - and Hannibal chokes back a groan, his whole body tensing up. “What do you want?”

“Will,” he says again, grinding his teeth.

“Can’t beg?” Will asks. He presses a kiss to the cut on his jaw, right where it will hurt, and Hannibal jolts against his lips. “Like I did?”

“You enjoyed it.”

“You can enjoy it,” Will says. He finds his prostate and sucks in a breath, grinding slowly against it. “Beg me to go faster.”

Hannibal stares up at Will as he pleasures himself. He watches the slow clench and unclench of his thighs, the drip of sweat along his neck, the slight part of his lips, and considers, for a moment, himself as only an instrument for Will’s pleasure; unmoving and helpless, for Will to use as he wishes. Then the moment passes and he thrusts up into Will, pulling a sharp gasp from him. He does it again, aiming for his prostate, and breaks Will’s grip on his wrists, clasping his hand and holding it tightly behind his back. He brings his own other hand to Will’s waist, fucking into him sharply.

“Go faster,” he commands, and Will moans, loosens his grip on the knife. He doesn’t want to obey so easily, doesn’t want to let Hannibal win, but it feels too good to fight it. He moves his hips more quickly and Hannibal easily matches his pace, going so deep inside of Will that he chokes every time Hannibal thrusts upwards. Hannibal grabs the second knife from the counter and presses it into his hip, dragging a cut along the shape of the bone as he fucks him harder. Will moans raggedly, pressing his face into his shoulder, and Hannibal puts the knife down and drags his hand against the blood leaking onto Will’s thigh. He tangles his hand in Will’s hair, red twisting in his curls, and pulls his head back sharply. 

“Look at me, please,” Hannibal says. Will’s mouth falls open, lips still flushed with Hannibal’s blood, the sheen of sweat slick on his body and his cock stiff and leaking onto his stomach. His eyes are far away, unfocused, and he forces them to meet Hannibal’s gaze. Hannibal moans and presses Will’s hand more tightly behind his back, the angle harsh, uncomfortable. 

“Touch me,” Will rasps out, bringing his knife to the side of Hannibal’s neck.

“I’m enjoying you like this,” Hannibal says, his breaths shallow. “You may touch yourself, if you like.”

Will glares at him, unwilling to let go of the knife. He drags the metal to the base of his neck, avoiding major arteries, and presses in, harder and harder until he breaks skin. Hannibal gasps out, jerking sharply into him, and Will drags a deep cut outwards. Blood glides smoothly down his collarbone.

“You’re getting dangerous, Will,” Hannibal says, voice straining against the knife. “An inch upwards and you would have killed me.”

“Really?” Will smiles, feigning unawareness. He moves the blade an inch upwards and presses down. The knife seems to burn hot in his hand. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? You want me to become dangerous.” He pauses, licks his lips. “I’m _becoming._ ”

Hannibal’s hips are barely moving, not wanting to make Will’s hand slip, or encourage it to. Will narrows his eyes and stops his movements completely. 

“Fuck me.”

“Will-”

“Do it,” he pushes, tightening around Hannibal, making his breath catch. “You said you trusted me.”

Hannibal’s jaw tightens, and he thrusts into Will, the movement of his hips harsh but constrained. Will cries out, hand tightening around the knife, and cries out again as Hannibal finds a steady pace.

“Faster,” he commands. Hannibal digs his nails into the hand at Will’s back and quickens his pace, acutely aware of how the knife shifts slightly with each thrust. Will adjusts the angle of his hips so that Hannibal hits whatever spot he wants him to hit and he moans raggedly, eyes fluttering shut. Hannibal yanks at his hair, pulling his head further back, and Will’s eyes fly back open, watering slightly.

“God- Hannibal. Touch me. Please,” he lets out, raw and desperate. 

“Put down the knife.”

“No,” Will grits out. He presses the blade hard into his neck and Hannibal chokes, hips stuttering. “Touch me. I’ll kill you. Touch me.”

Hannibal lets go of his waist and wraps an unsteady hand around his cock, stroking him quick and sharp. Will lets out a broken sound at the touch, immediately leaning into it, precum leaking steadily onto Hannibal’s hand.

“Can you feel all the places I cut you, Will? Can you feel my touch there, burning inside of you, transforming you from the inside out?” 

“Yes,” Will chokes out. “Can you feel mine?”

“Of course,” Hannibal says. Will presses the knife harder into his throat and Hannibal sucks in a breath. “Will, please, you could-”

“I could. Does it scare you?” Will interrupts, and that wild look returns to his eyes, tinged with heady desperation. “I know it gets you off. I can feel- fuck, I can feel you twitch inside of me, when I do it. Your hips jerk up differently. It feels so good, when you-”

He loosens the knife slightly and then presses back down, harder, shuddering at Hannibal’s reaction. Hannibal’s thrusts are erratic now, his breath frantic and strained, the blade at his neck shifting more readily as Will falls apart.

“I’m at the _spot_ ,” Will rasps. “Tell me how it feels. Tell me you’re scared.”

“Will,” Hannibal chokes out.

“Tell me. Please.”

“Will,” he repeats, voice breaking in the middle of the word as he comes. He jolts under Will, neck straining dangerously against the blade, and Will pulls it away. Hannibal thrusts roughly into him through his orgasm and then keeps going, hand still tight around his cock. Will gasps out, grinding hard against his cock, legs trembling around Hannibal’s. He kisses him desperately and Hannibal presses him closer with the hand at his back, cock angling deeper into him. He bites down hard on Will’s bottom lip, blood pooling under his teeth, and Will climaxes with a choked moan. He comes onto Hannibal’s stomach, shuddering violently, and Hannibal strokes him sharply through it. Then he keeps stroking, hard and slow, and Will’s oversensitive cock twitches in his palm. Will whimpers, the knife slipping from his hand and clattering to the floor, and he pries Hannibal’s hand off of him.

Hannibal pulls out and they stay quiet and still for a moment, catching their breaths, Hannibal’s hand still held loosely in Will’s. 

“How did I do?” Will murmurs. “With your lesson?”

“Exceptionally well,” Hannibal says, catching his eye. “Though I’m not sure how much credit either of us can take in that, considering you knew everything I said already.”

“You knew that when we started.”

Hannibal breathes out a laugh. “And you knew I knew,” he says. “We should clean our cuts.”

As if on command, the cuts on Will throb slightly. He wonders if they’ll scar - the one on his collarbone will, almost certainly, as will the one in his hip. He hopes the others do. He hopes Hannibal’s do, as well. He stares intently at the one at the base of his neck, paralleled by the raw line of pink above it, along the carotid.

“What if I’m not done with them yet?” He asks. He leans in and presses his tongue to the blood drying under the cut, dragging it languidly along his neck. Hannibal sighs contentedly, tangling his hand in Will’s curls.

“Then I’ll keep them open for you.”

Will thinks of it, tearing each other open, living off the thick heat of the other’s blood. There is a multitude of words to describe it - violent, base, horrific. The first one that enters Will’s mind is beautiful. 


End file.
